Long Exposure
In the large-grained photo on the mantel,
I am a child in size 2 red wellingtons—
an offering to the August sands.
Cows look on with slow salt tongues
and outside the frame, rabbits
tend their young in stubble-stalk dunes.
August again, I watch you through the viewfinder.
You crouch by a burrow mouth,
familiar sands receiving your size 2s.
You deposit gifts of stone and shell,
scooped from the pockets
of your red anorak
with detachable lining—
the one I picked so you would
never be too hot, or wet, or cold.
The Scrabble Players
The first big gathering in a long time—
most of us beach on sofas,
replete after second helpings.
We are clean out of clean spoons.
The wild noise of sugared children
finds us from another room.
Five stay on at table,
have found a box of Scrabble.
The one child among them
hasn’t played before.
We watch them, a tableau of familiars
oblivious to their audience
as they peel back the tablecloth
to reach bare wood.
Shifting under lamp light, part-hidden
behind hands and hair, they pivot
to play tiles, prompt, interject
with suggestions for the young one.
He’d rather be here with them
than in any other time or room.
Ice Cubes in Sangria
By train through fields
stitched with lemon trees
past vine-laced hills
and farm machines
one of those trips
we planned for ages—
arrive in town just
in time for last sitting
negotiate cobblestones
in matching summer mules
bicker over restaurants
with the same menu
settle on a table
in a net-fringed window
flattering for toasting
posting photos
plans derailed
by a sudden buffer stop—
one of those trips
we never took.
Flight of the dragonfly 